Marks and Bearings
by unanymousdeen
Summary: Every person who is initiated from Novice to Assassin always fears the ceremony where one is to sacrifice their finger. Altaïr/Anima. One-shot for LivesTooShort52, using her characters from her story "War and Peace".


**THESE ARE NOT MY CHARACTERS:**

**Characters such as Altaïr, Malik, Al Mualim, and every other character from AC I belong to Ubisoft.**

**Characters such as Anima, Amelia, and every other character from the story "War and Peace" belong to LivesTooShort52.**

**This is a fic for LivesTooShort52, and to anyone else who read and love her story, "War and Peace" :D**

* * *

Anima stood strongly in front of Al Mualim, her hands clasped behind her back and appearing attentive. She had been called to his desk – something about an important situation which needed to be dealt with immediately, and that she report to his station as soon as possible. For the entire hustle there, her mind had been occupied on what exactly Al Mualim wanted to discuss. Of course it was imperative, as any meeting with such a grand figure meant significance.

The Mentor stood from his chair and eyed the woman before him carefully, taking note of the way she presented herself. Anima's stance was sturdy and attentive, palms held behind her spine, and feet spread slightly apart to offer her body an equal sense of balance. Her chin was elevated enough so that her pale gray eyes could shine from under her hood, those irises waiting for his move. _Malik must have beaten this into her._

"Anima," he began, moving towards the most anterior portion of the desk. "It is of my highest regards to inform you that your rank towards Assassin is currently achieved, and you are deemed worthy to carry the knowledge and craft of a major."

The woman's jaw dropped slightly, and the edges of her lips curved into a small smile, exposing her white teeth. Those gray eyes brightened with color, and it took everything in her to not jump and scream, and cry to the world of her newest achievement. Anima wanted to wiggle and squirm in place, but it was irrational to do such in front of your master. She would unleash her excitement later.

"A ceremony will be held today and dusk in the courtyard. A tailor will arrive to your quarters shortly to ensure your measurements and uniform are personalized to perfection. You are to wear your new robes to the celebration, and please try to not dirty them." The Mentor smirked.

Anima nodded. "Will that be all?"

Al Mualim dismissed her with a flick of his wrist, and the new Assassin was off, already sprinting towards the courtyard after properly leaving the Mentor's presence. Her smile had grown larger since, and she scanned the area around her in search for a certain assassin whom happened to be leaning against the stone wall outside the center of the bureau.

Anima stumbled trying to halt her race and turn a full one hundred and fifty degrees around to face him. "You'll never believe it!" She announced, steadying herself in front of Altaïr.

"Let me guess," Altaïr hummed. "You got promoted?"

Anima dropped her shaking arms, lips forming into a pout. "You're no fun." She wouldn't ask how he found out. Altaïr was, in fact, standing almost directly under the Mentor's desk.

Altaïr chuckled, glancing to the ground and then back up. "Congratulations."

Anima's grin returned, though significantly softer. "Thank you."

"You should probably head over to your room. The tailor will arrive soon."

"How much did you hear exactly?"

"Everything. Now go." Altaïr motioned to the second level, standing from his leaned position against the wall. He turned her around, pushing his hands against Anima's upper back. The girl's eyes widened, and she nearly fell over, face-first, into the ground.

"Hey!"

"Move it."

"I can walk on my own two feet, thank you."

"You didn't look like you were going to move anytime soon." Altaïrscowled, passing her.

Anima huffed, balling her hands into fists before furrowing her eyebrows. "Are you…coming with me?"

"No." He deadpanned, continuing to walk away.

"You do realize the women's quarters are off-limits to men, right?" Anima smirked.

"I do not intend to head that far."

Anima jogged beside Altaïr, catching his pace. "Alright then." She linked her hands together behind her back, a habit she caught on to, and strolled with Altaïr through the halls of the bureau.

"So, how old is this place?" She asked, breaking the silence.

Altaïr shrugged. "I'm not sure. It was here a few centuries before my birth."

Anima nodded, drawing her eyes to the shape and texture of the walls around her. She had not been in the bureau of Masyaf for too long – only a year or so, perhaps. She had lost track a long time ago.

"Are you nervous?"

Anima raised an eyebrow, her attention from before averted to the assassin next to her. "Excuse me?"

"The ceremony; you do realize that a celebration is not the only part of your initiation."

"What do you mean?" She was all-ever curious now.

"The removal of your left ring finger, Anima. It is a sacrifice all Assassin's must make."

The Swedish woman looked down at finger, feeling it tingle and numb as her body seemed to react unnaturally to the news. "I assumed that was only required for the Masters…"

"No. The Master's aren't the only people who use hidden blades. All of us with the word 'Assassin' in our title are regarded as 'of nine fingers'."

Anima frowned. She hadn't really expected this. The bureau in Sweden definitely did not operate the same way towards said circumstances. According to their traditions, the removal of a person's ring finger was executed when one was to be a Master Assassin. Here, in Masyaf, it was significantly different. Although, she did have to admit, it was a larger and more promising opportunity. If she were to one day revisit Sweden, her former brothers and sisters (technically, she was the only female assassin in Masyaf) would look upon her with awe.

But the pain that came forth from the "operation" she couldn't bear to think about. It made her stomach churn and twist in directions she thought she'd never feel again.

Altaïr, upon succumbing to Anima's reaction, turned in front of her, making the woman come to a halt and look up at him confused. He reached for her left hand, bringing it up for both of them to see. Anima gazed at their grip, feeling numb all over at this point. She sensed Altaïr's golden eyes bear into her's, and his grip grew a little tighter.

"It is going to be okay. You need not worry."

"But, Altaïr –"

"I will be right next to you…the entire time."

Anima glanced up, her eyes glassily filled with anxiety and worry. "How painful will it be?"

"You're strong – I know something like this won't get through to you so easily. You've felt worse." He said, acknowledging her wrist's former condition.

"But that couldn't be nearly as painful as an amputation. Remember Malik and his arm?"

"But you are only to lose a finger, not an entire limb."

"That is not as reassuring as your think, Altaïr." Anima frowned at him.

Altaïr smiled the slightest, bringing their hands down to their sides and turning, interlocking his fingers with Anima's. "I've been through it before. Trust me when I say that it's not as bad as you see it to be."

"How long will it take to recover?" Anima asked, hardly relaxing.

"Six months. But your fingers will be secured and concealed by layers of bandages. You must attend training, but the use of your left hand will not be allowed until it has fully healed."

She froze – eyes wide. "Why so long? How many months was Malik in recuperation?"

"One year."

Anima couldn't walk anymore.

Altaïr chuckled. "Must I carry you to your quarters?"

«««

"Very good. It fits you perfectly." The tailor smiled, her long brown hair falling over her shoulder as she tilted her head to observe her work. "A new suit for a new Assassin. And to my surprise, a woman like I."

Anima scrunched her nose, bringing the trademark hood over her head. "I am nothing like you." She stated, turning away.

"But you are a woman. We do not see female assassins here in Syria. It is forbidden."

"Why? Women can be just as prodigious of an assassin as men. In my country, women were allowed into the Creed, and were respected even more if they were brought in by other assassins. It exhibited that our brothers and sisters themselves deemed us worthy of being a member."

The other woman sighed lightly. "It's our culture here in Syria – our laws and tradition that keep a woman from the bureau to kill."

"The people of your country are fools, then."

"I do not think so." The tailor bent down onto her calves, adjusting the fabric that overlay Anima's legs. She attuned the red tail the draped in front, and positioned the think pelt properly along her waist. "Women are safe from danger and death. We bring life, and help others live and adapt."

"But that is no fun. You Syrian women are housewives."

"But we are happy."

"Are you really?"

"Yes." The tailor said more sternly this time.

Anima raised her eyebrows. "I have a hard time believing you."

"That's too bad."

The Swedish woman crossed her arms over her chest, lips scrunching into a scowl. "I'm proud of my heritage."

"You should be. We all should be."

A few more adjustments and additions of armor were made before the tailor stood once more to observe her manipulations. She deemed them worthy of being presented, and lectured Anima on how to properly position them when she dressed daily. Then, she was dismissed.

When her eyes discovered Altaïr, still remaining in the position he was when she left, Anima felt slightly relieved.

Altaïr looked up from the throwing knife he was toying with and scrutinized Anima's new armor. "You wear them with elegance." He stated, smiling. "It's good to see you ranking up – gives me more competition." He smirked.

Anima sneered. "Yeah, okay. Wait until I make Master. I will destroy you in the training rink. _That_, I will guarantee."

Altaïr chuckled, standing upright. "Shall we?" He motioned down the hall.

Anima grinned. "We shall."

"Your friend, Amelia, stopped to chat on the way to her quarters. She told me of the schedule for the ceremony."

"What's the plan?" Anima asked, twining her hands together behind her back.

"Ten novices are being promoted today alongside you. Because you were the last to be informed of your uprising, your premiere will be last."

Anima felt her stomach drop. "After I present my oath, do I…you know…?"

"Yes. Everyone will be watching. Try not to scream, as it will leave a bad impression."

Anima sighed, fiddling with the skin around her fingernails. "I'm a little too nervous."

"Al Mualim wants all of the Masters to be present for the ceremony. I cannot stand right at your hip, but I'm permitted to be off to the side. That gives me a chance to follow you to the infirmary while everyone is leaving without too much suspicion. I promise I will be there for when you are being bandaged."

She had to show some form of appreciation. Altaïr had tried to take a stand nearby her for the ceremony. "Thank you."

Altaïr smiled lightly, placing a hand on Anima's shoulder.

«««

The ceremony was, in reality, short, yet every passing moment felt excruciatingly long and tense. The anxiety had been bolting through Anima's body for the entire duration, and grew stronger and more nerve-wracking as each name was read off, oaths were given, and fingers were taken. Only two had screamed thus far, and the others had whimpered and cried – tears spilling down their cheeks from the pain and blood. It was absolute torment for the woman.

Nothing relaxed or eased Anima when Al Mualim took his place in front of her. Anima's body was flaring with fear now, and she was afraid everyone could see it. Her body did not shake, and that was accomplished through force – her own force. She could not show that she was weak. She was not weak. Being weak was for the weary, and Anima was not weary.

"Anima Engström." The Mentor announced, holding up the book to his only good eye. "In honor of your culture and birthright, your ceremony will be held according to Swedish tradition."

_A verse from the Bible, and oath, and then the removal of the finger. Not entirely different, but nice._ Anima fell to one knee, bowing her head and interlocking her fingers together. She relaxed slightly at the remembrance of her home custom towards initiations.

"Lukas 5:17: "Nu hände sig en dag, då han undervisade folket, att där sutto några fariséer och laglärare – sådana hade nämligen kommit dit från alla byar i Galileen och Judeen och från Jerusalem – och Herrens kraft verkade, så att sjuka blevo botade av honom." Genom påbud av det Creed, du ar nu en bemästra lönnmörderska av ära. Göra du, Anima, acceptera sådan en titel?" He read, obviously not perfectly but one could tell he had been practicing.

[_Luke 5:17__: "One day as he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law, who had come from every village of Galilee and from Judea and Jerusalem, were sitting there. And the power of the Lord was present for him to heal the sick." By decree of the Creed, you are now a Master Assassin of honor. Do you, Anima, accept such a title?]_

"Jag gör. Jag utlova till få ära på det Creed, och hänseende min bröder samt systrar. Jag utlova till hörsamma det lagar och lyda min vägvisare alltid. Härav hjälpa mig Gud." Anima answered, her Swedish still fresh and fluent on her tongue. It felt good to speak her mother language again.

[_I do. I promise to bring honor to the Creed, and respect, my brothers and sisters. I promise to comply with the laws and obey my directions always. So help me God.]_

"Få det kniv." Al Mualim said to the guards behind the new assassins. They nodded, assuming that he wanted the blade, and one brought the object out from a wooden box.

[_Bring the knife._]

"Stiga upp, lönnmörderska." The Mentor ordered, taking hold of the la

rge dagger.

[_Rise, assassin._]

Anima gulped at the sight of it. Her tension had flown right back into her system.

"Gå till det stena."

[_Come to the stone._]

And she did, maintaining her best posture and attempting to appear strong-willed and mighty. She couldn't hide the fear she felt perfectly.

"Få du vänstersida fingra till det stena, och jag ska bort det för att hedra det Creed."

[_Bring your left finger to the stone, and I shall remove it in honor of the Creed._]

Anima took a deep breath, and slowly laid her finger upon the unforgiving stone and took one last glimpse of the extremity that she will never see again. Her stomach was doing flips and her heart was racing at the sight of the Mentor approaching her, the knife shining awfully bright in the late night sky.

"Träffa förberedelser och var lugn."

[_Prepare and don't worry._]

Anima closed her eyes gently. She avoided any tense reaction, regardless of how she was feeling. She would be strong, but not strong enough to watch Al Mualim dismember her finger.

And then it hit her – this intense, sharp, screaming, horrifying pain that raced through her veins and coursed through body. Anima bit her tongue so hard that it drew blood, and her eyes screwed tightly shut. A migraine swept through her mind, and she could feel the blood draining from her hand and the violent surges roaring up her arm.

_I will not scream, I will not scream. Fuck, this hurts so bad, dammit. Don't scream. Don't scream. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts._

She was rushed off to the infirmiry like the others, sensing Altaïr's presense on her heels. But she could not bring herself to look at him. Someone was pressing a cloth against the stub of her left ring finger, and it hurt _so fucking bad_.

_Don't scream. Don't scream._

"Hurry! Bandage her!" One of the guards was shouting to a nurse, presumably.

Anima's body had pulled itself into a shock when she opened her eyes and saw the blood-soaked cloth and fretting skin around the proximal joint of her finger.

She passed out.

«««

* * *

**Ehhhh, I didn't know what else to write for the rest of this. Cliffhanger ending? Yeah? Yeaaah? ;)**

**Thank you, LivesTooShort52, for letting me write a one-shot for your story! It was so much fun, and I hope to write more. Your characters...THEY ROCK. YEH.**


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